Capacity
by MusketeerAdventure
Summary: These are Milady's thoughts during the season one pilot; and then again during the season two finale. She had felt many things for many people in her life, but had felt only love for one.
1. Chapter 1

Capacity

By: Musketeer Adventure

Summary: Milady's thoughts during season one. I wondered how she became who she is, and thought this could explain it.

She had felt many things for many people in her life, but had felt only love for one.

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As she stood watching the scene below her, Anne held her breath. She didn't understand this apprehension.

She had felt many things for many people in her life, but had felt only love for one. And he was there below her, begging for his executioners to take his life.

She had thought her capacity for love had never been there. Distrust had been her protection, the start of a gage for any relationship. Interaction, for her, usually ended in manipulation and violent disengagement.

Her mother, Mila, had not loved her. She had chosen only to tolerate. Mila's gage had begun with how not to starve; then not to freeze; then not to die. She had aged before her time, and at this moment she did not know if Mila was dead or alive.

When she knew her mother, their life had been hard; made doubly so by the abject poverty they dwelled in.

Her father was a vague memory, his looks, lost to her. But she did remember that he was a quiet, sad, introverted man, who had killed himself. Poverty and starvation had worn him down.

Her mother woke every morning, in their hovel, cursing his name and not letting her forget that he had left them here alone, to starve and fend for themselves. If she had no food, it was his fault. If her shoes had holes, it was his fault. If there was no coal – the litany went on and on.

So, it was up to them to survive.

For as long as she could remember, she had been a beggar and a thief. She had learned at an early age to use her eyes to deceive; to feign weakness in order to gain charity.

It had been an early skill that she would use all her life to survive. She learned that the lift of an eye brow, the tilt of her head at a certain angle, could suggest whatever she wanted to convey. She had perfected the pout at five years old. Just the right amount of protruding of the lower lip could gain that much needed coin.

Mila saw the signs of her intellect and understanding early, and cultivated it to their advantage. All of it done in the name of survival. The instinct was strong in Mila, and she would pass it on to her daughter. Girls only survived if they were smarter than men. So she taught her girl all she knew – the letters of her name, her gift for numbers and the art of deception.

By ten years old, Anne knew the streets of her township like the back of her hand. She understood the people, how they thought, and what she could get away with while stealing from them.

She could run fast, pick a pocket and steal fruit from their stands without being noticed, even as they looked straight at her. Illusion was her gift. Show them what they wanted to see – a beautiful child with an angelic smile. They pinched her cheeks as the apple went into her pocket.

At twelve years old, her mother took a good look at her dark hair, large eyes and developing body and taught her the understanding of her cycle and the look of disease. Avoiding pregnancy and disease were one and the same.

Mila then sent her among men to pleasure, and bring back coin. All in the name of survival her mother would remind her.

So, she roamed the streets under Mila's guidance and at thirteen was given over to an innkeeper to sell her wares for her mother's percentage. She was popular, knew she had something – of what she wasn't so certain of, but seduced the innkeeper for more profit, to pocket for herself.

Here in the inn she learned to watch people. She would sit outside the door during the day, and see ladies walk by, notice their dress, their sway and manner of speaking. She would parrot this and bring it to her trade. They ate it up. She would use it, and steal from them while they slept.

She also learned to hide behind a name. She could be anybody, talk; walk; think, and loose herself in a name, but she would always keep Anne.

She didn't realize the power she held until she was fifteen and led a nobleman around by the nose. She got out of it money, a new dress and proper shoes. When he caught on to her whiles, he beat her, took his gifts, and left her in the mud. She learned to be more discerning, and to close the con before they knew what happened.

At sixteen years old, the nuns of The Order of St. Benedict, swept the streets of her township and picked her up off the streets along with other girls, with the mission of saving them.

The convent became a respite and she never saw Mila again.

She settled in there, and found that she could be just what the sisters wanted her to be. They fed her, clothed her, and gave her a place to lay her head. She learned to pray without passion, to sing, to worship without believing, and to keep her true nature to herself.

She did not have the capacity to love God. He did not love her. But the sisters, through Him, taught her to read beyond her name, memorize the scripture, and to work. She learned to study mankind while being invisible. The sisters afforded her the education girls were denied.

At eight-teen, she had worked her way to novice, and had to get out before she actually took vows. So she set her sights on a young priest, who did not know himself, and pretended at holiness. It was easy, and he was willing. Together they planned, and with her skill at thievery stole the coffers and ran.

What she did not foresee was the long arm of the church. She and her priest did not get far. They were captured and arrested, the church condemning them to the harshest of punishments.

So at eight-teen, she was branded a thief, along with her lover, and thrown into prison. Their escape from bondage was fortuitous. Being who she was, she seduced her jailer, who risked all to allow her and her lover to go free. He was hanged for his efforts.

So together, she and her priest begged, and stole their way across the countryside, until they made their way to Pinon.

Here her lover found work as a curator, and she with the gift of reinvention, pretended to be his sister. She lost her self again in a name, Anne de Brevil and became her. Sister by day, lover by night; and pinching the tithes and offerings as the plate emptied into the basket each Sunday.

It was a way to live. Mila's lesson etched in her very existence. Survive at all cost.

Looking down on Athos now, she thought back on when she first saw the Comte de le Fere. She had never thought of a man as beautiful. But there he was.

He was tall, moved with grace, and was careful. She first thought him arrogant, because he did not speak.

Pinon was his. When he walked among them, everyone stopped to bow their heads in deference. He always nodded back, but never spoke. When she looked on him, something sparked within her, and she set her sights on him right away. Everyone loved him, respected him, and he was the future, her future.

Survive, she had whispered to herself. Here was survival.

So she watched, and was there as he rode his horse, walked to the market, sat in church, attended community functions. As the curator's "sister" she had access to gossip, knew his intended, the older Comte's illness and the brother's whispered about immoral ways.

She could tell he noticed her, and what she assumed was arrogance was instead shyness. She was unfamiliar with how to proceed.

She realized her repartee would not work on him. He was reserved, and sensitive – but sure of himself and his place.

She had all but given up on her plan, when he approached her and the "curator" after church one Sunday and asked permission to walk her home. She was stunned, and her lover equally so. That's how it began.

First it was walks home after church; then picnics or other church functions, and then it progressed to riding, and filling out her card at estate dances.

He asked nothing of her, but her company.

He spoke to her, talked with her, listened to her, read with her and asked her opinions; but never once asked of her background.

When he declared his love, she knew she would survive – not just in the short term, but for years to come.

But if he knew her, really knew her, he would not love her.

To protect herself, she hid her brand expertly; spun a tale of her parentage; and rid herself of her "brother"; whose riding accident came as a shock to the community and aroused sympathy on her behalf.

His family, though wary of her, felt sorry for her.

And in the end, ignoring their protests, he married her and loved her; and she knew, gave her all he had to give. She knew how to give him what he wanted. She was a master after all.

And she knew how to stroke him, how to make him happy. He was wounded. His father did not love him, and his brother – who he adored, he did not know.

But she knew Thomas- recognized him for who he was. He was a man cut from her cloth. They could not love. The capacity was not there.

But she felt something for her husband. He made her laugh. He valued what she thought. He tried to make her as happy as she could possibly be. Love making was an adventure, each and every time. He stole her breath and knew how to make her skin tremble. He knew how to pleasure her in every way; and she reciprocated.

All was well, her survival intact, and then the elder Comte died.

Thomas openly revealed his true self to her and to protect her future, she killed him. She wasn't sorry.

But the look on Athos' face had somehow hurt her.

He had said that he loved her, but had chosen his duty, and a dead brother he did not know, over her. But he didn't know her either.

Once again, self-preservation was her friend.

Above all, she knew how to survive and had escaped his death sentence with another scar to brand her not only as a thief, but as a murderer.

After Pinon, she reinvented herself once again. She had done what she did best, survived. She seduced and remarried and killed again to live another day. She had borne a son, who she tolerated as Mila had tolerated her. She only knew he resided with his father's people and lived.

She had spent the last five years perfecting her new skill as an assassin and spy for the Cardinal.

In that time she realized that what she had felt for Athos must have been love; or something close to it.

That she had the capacity for it and did not know it, ate at her, and warped her more in some way.

The life she led now, led her further and further away from that girl in Pinon; and each year she grew to hate Athos for not really loving her at all, and for fooling not only himself, but her as well. Perhaps she could have been happy?

As she looked down on the firing squad, aiming their muskets at the ready, she felt a sense of anguish as Athos bowed his head in surrender to certain death. But then the Musketeers rushed in and saved his life at the last moment thwarting her plans. And somehow, to her surprise, she felt relief. She had thought his death would bring her some measure of satisfaction and peace.

It seemed his life, instead, gave her purpose. Perhaps revenge was what she really wanted?

She stepped back from the window as Athos joined his brothers, and began to plot her next move.

The end.

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Thank you for reading. Please review and let me know what you think. To those who have read the novels, please know this is just my interpretation. What little information I have gathered, I just let my imagination run with it. Milady is a complex character and I wondered how she could care for Athos, and hate him at the same time. Your thoughts are appreciated. Have added a second chapter due to the outstanding season two finale.


	2. Chapter 2

Capacity

By: MusketeerAdventure

Summary: These are Milady's thoughts during the season one pilot; and then again during the season two finale. She had felt many things for many people in her life, but had felt only love for one.

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Chapter 2

She had thought herself incapable of true feeling, but yet here she sat on the crossroads, waiting to start over once again. She was waiting to start over with the only person she ever trusted. She trusted him this time, because he knew her, had no illusions about her and loved her any way. He must.

She held her gloves tightly in her grasp, folding, twisting, and pulling; startling at every hoof beat that approached her carriage. In exasperation, she placed them on the seat next to her.

Her hands, unable to stay still, pressed down on her new frock – erasing the creases and fluffing the petticoats.

When they were but newlyweds – he had liked her in the color blue. Blue highlighted her hair, he had told her, and matched the violets she so loved to carry.

He would like her in this dress, she thought. It would bring back a happy memory; and there were so few.

Their memories together were so tangled up in rage, bitterness, betrayal, deceit and death. In between those emotions there had been attraction, connection, and bewilderment. She could not understand what kept them tethered to one another.

But early on, there had been something between them. She wasn't sure just what – but there had been something. He had declared love and he had given it freely. She had sought stability and hoped to stop running from a past that even now continued to pursue her. Her past that encompassed theft, and cold blooded murder. She was who she was. That would not change.

But how could she explain this? In her whole life she had loved no one. Was this what she felt? Was this love?

She only knew that she felt this way for no other.

For no other person would she have risked her own life, to reenter the palace walls and save Aramis. But she knew Athos loved him and loved him deeply.

This was her starting point. If she did this – saved his brother – he would see that she meant it, when asking him to give up his life to start over with her.

She took a deep breath, afraid to look out the window. The sun was beginning to dip, and if she denied its descent, she could wait a little longer.

She thought back on when they first met; how shy he was – how sensitive – how he had looked on her with such caring.

She had thought him soft, arrogant; but that wasn't the case.

He was the first person to ever hear her. Her mother had demanded survival of her, but did not take the time to understand her. Her father had chosen to leave her, never to know her. The nuns prayed for her; educated her; and probably saved her from death and disease, but never wanted to hear what she wanted from life.

The Cardinal and men like him used her body and her mind- but never asked her what she thought unless it was to do with the art of deception and assassination.

She had told Athos things, because he heard her. He had listened. She enjoyed music; she liked to feel the grass between her toes, and the sun on her face. She liked the smell of violets. She liked to sing, and he never tired of listening to her lullabies. No one touched the small of her back or kissed her shoulder and made her feel the way he did. She could talk to him without speaking. She liked the way her hand felt in his. He had asked her all these things; and she had told him.

Even recently, she felt no other positive connection, but with him. Not even her son gave her a sense of this – a son she did not know and did not want to know.

Aramis had told her not to take death so lightly. She did not. It was life she had taken lightly. So consumed with surviving, she had not really lived.

But those few short years with Athos – that must have been living. She just had not known it.

But then she had lived with him alongside lies and deceit. This time, she would be made bare. He knew her and still cared for her. Maybe, he could truly love her again.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the thunderous clapping of hooves; she grabbed her gloves and leapt from the carriage. This must be him! Her heart hammered so loud in her chest, she thought it might burst.

But this rider charged on to meet some other urgent business.

Her knees slightly buckled and the glove she grasped fell from her hands.

She hung her head and looked back behind her. Perhaps the next rider…

She shook her head in resignation.

Was she insane?

He would not come.

Athos loved duty, honor, the Musketeers and his brothers.

He would not love her as he did when they were barely adults. She had become something hard and incapable of mercy.

It was time for her to move on and once again re-invent herself. England waited for her. England, where it rained all the time, and the food was…..

She looked around her and surveyed the landscape one final time. France was beautiful. She would never see her or Athos again.

She stepped into the carriage, and told the driver to move on.

As the carriage made its way, tears came to her eyes. She touched her face and stared down at her wet fingers. Her forehead creased with consternation.

She had never really cried before, not through hunger, disappointment, torture; or even imprisonment.

The tears then stared to stream freely, and she felt her throat constrict. Before she understood what was happening, she began to weep and sob so uncontrollably, that it was hard to catch her breath.

Once again, he had chosen duty over her, and had condemned her to a life that was as hollow as death.

Some time went by before she finally sat up straight, wiped her tears and set her eyes like iron.

She would never have the capacity to trust, or love another human being again.

Athos had taken it all, and he could keep it.

The end

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Thank you for reading. Please review and let me know what you think. The second season finale just blew me away, and I felt the need to follow up on my original thoughts (and hers) about the character of Milady.


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